


Verbum Unum

by stillwaters01



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awesome Bobby, Bedside Vigils, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 17:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3819163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillwaters01/pseuds/stillwaters01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watching Dean sit vigil over an injured Sam, Bobby muses on family and trust.</p><p>(Originally posted 3/31/11)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Verbum Unum

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.
> 
> Written: 3/25/11
> 
> Notes: This was my first journey into writing for Supernatural. I hope I did the characters and emotions justice. The beginning quote is taken directly from the fourth season episode “Lazarus Rising.” Thank you for your support as I explore these characters and their world.

 

 

 

Sometimes Bobby wondered how they had gotten here.

 

_“Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait! Your name is Robert Steven Singer, you became a hunter after your wife got possessed, and you're about the closest thing I have to a father…”_

Somewhere, even before Dean’s hurried post-resurrection proof, it had happened.

 

They had become a damn family.

 

As Bobby watched over the two still figures on the floor of his study, he couldn’t ignore the fact that, over the years, Sam and Dean had become less “John’s boys” and more “ _his_ boys” in his own head.

 

And damn, if he didn’t love those boys like his own. Self-sacrificing, stubborn idjits, by turns brilliantly efficient hunters and moronically misled novices….but with two of the most devoted souls he had ever seen. Sometimes they were so much like John, it was as if the man had never died……and Bobby’s finger itched for the shotgun by sheer emotional reflex. But other times, they were so far from the militaristic, obsessive upbringing, the hunting genes, and frighteningly far-reaching destiny crap throwing new holes in an already rough road….that Bobby sometimes wondered if Sam and Dean had turned out as good as they had _because_ of their father or in _spite_ of him. And he’d be damned if his heart didn’t ache for them…..and for himself – because when they looked at each other in that _way_ they had…..well, it was hard not to suddenly feel a crushing loss, a desperate emptiness in himself….because even when he was married, Bobby had never known the kind of love and devotion those Winchester boys had for one another. And that realization sometimes hurt as much as seeing them hurt for each other.

 

Like now.

 

Bobby’s eyes instinctively glanced over at Dean’s minute movement, lingering on the rigid back before ghosting over Sam’s pale form and finding the confirmation for Dean’s continued tension. No change.

 

He blew out a silent, heavy sigh, unwilling to taint Dean’s focused watch with the sound of Bobby’s heart aching, his mind wandering.

 

Bobby wasn’t the kind of man to take over another father’s job, but he had no idea how much of a father he had become to those boys until they began to show him. By action, when they ran to his bedside and dream walked to save his mind, prowling the room like worried cubs circling their wounded patriarch. Then, by words, when Dean returned from Hell – “ _you're about the closest thing I have to a father.”_

 

By showing up at his door last night, bleeding more than just blood.

 

Bobby first realized his new role several years ago, when he saw the surprise in both boys’ faces, but particularly Dean’s, when he had immediately responded to a thinly-veiled, panicked call for help on a hunt. They had been in it up to their eyeballs, with Sam barely patched together from a gunshot wound they couldn’t afford to risk a hospital for, and Sam insisting on bleeding out over his brother in order to remain at his side, rather than leave Dean without backup. The utter surprise, uncertainty, and overwhelming relief in those two sets of shining eyes had nearly broken Bobby’s formidable heart. It was in that crushing moment that Bobby came to understand how many times Sam and Dean had left John frightened pleas for help, sons calling out for the protection and wisdom of their father, only to be met with silence. They weren’t _used_ to having the kind of support Bobby gave both freely and reliably. And, for the most part, Bobby understood that John had done the best he could with his situation, but damn, if Bobby hadn’t wanted to shoot the bastard again, dead or not, for what he saw in those boys’ eyes that day.

 

And so, Bobby had found himself stepping, unspoken, into a long vacant role. He saw those boys through it all – celebrated their victories, shared mirrored fears as destiny shadowed their world, related knowledge and experience and fought at their side, fed, sheltered, and patched them up, and mourned their losses. And they, in turn, unlikely as it would seem in a hunter’s world, enriched Bobby’s life. Bobby looked out for them, checked in regularly, and they did the same for him. And when Dean, unflinchingly, blindly loyal-to-John Dean, finally reached the point where he could admit how much of a bastard John had been, Bobby had been glad the boy was finally seeing straight….but he certainly hadn’t expected their unspoken relationship to become verbal. Sam and Dean didn’t let others into their airtight two-man support system easily. They looked out for each other, unable to believe that anyone else could, would, or _deserved_ to have that responsibility. So, when they began to associate Bobby as a father figure in conversation, Bobby found himself beginning to reference them as sons…..but the words, as much as they floored Bobby, were somehow inconsequential to the actions.

 

Like to Dean showing up on Bobby’s doorstep with his heart bleeding in his arms.

 

To the bowed figure sitting a silent, agonizing vigil against the flickering of weary candles, shutting out the rest of the threatening world in a rare display of faith, his back to the one man he believed would keep the shadows at bay for this eternal moment of hopeful grief.

 

To his father, a man of action far beyond the man who had held that title by blood alone.

 

To Bobby.

 

***

 

Dean drew in a breath, a tightly controlled wince betraying the agony induced by that minute movement, harsh motion after a seemingly endless rigid vigil.

 

Bobby cut him off before he could speak. “No, Dean,” he said quietly, voice firm in its gentle emotion.

 

“Bobby….” Dean’s voice was an impossibly raw duet – the growling, threatened, revenge-driven hunter in discordant harmony with the shattered, shaking terror of a child anticipating a devastating loss. Dean’s eyes remained fixed on the still form on the bloody mattress he knelt next to – a prayer beyond any deity or tradition. He faintly cringed with each blink, an infant afraid to close his eyes, lest his loved ones disappear from existence in that split-second absence of sight.

 

“No,” Bobby repeated firmly. He sighed heavily, sinking back against the ancient support of his book-laden desk. “Look, Dean, I know how much you wanna go after that SOB….”

 

Dean cut Bobby off with a glare, head whipping around angrily, eyes burning. “And you’re gonna tell me not to?” he spat. His jaw clenched as his voice threatened to break. “Bobby, look at him,” Dean gestured wildly at Sam’s motionless form on the mattress – the mattress that Bobby had dragged downstairs when the silently screaming Dean, who had shown up at his door with an armful of bloodied brother, had finally collapsed to the floor of the study, cradling Sam’s garishly painted, ashen face as his eyes continued to plead for help. Dean’s throat bobbed. “He shot m’brother,” Dean said thickly, desperately trying to control his emotions, to keep the strong hunter’s control. He pulled that glare back together and promptly stopped thinking. “And you’re gonna sit there and tell me to let that bastard go….maybe let him take another crack at Sam while he’s down in case…..” Dean swallowed raggedly. “Well, why the hell not? I mean, it’s not like Sam’s your….”

 

Bobby shot upright, towering over Dean’s kneeling form in a rare display of raw power. “Boy, you’d better stop that mouth from runnin’ any further and start usin’ that damn head of yours again,” Bobby warned, voice low and dangerous. He drew a breath. “In case you forgot, _I_ was the one who just put thirty stitches in your brother’s head…..and if you think you’re the only one rememberin’ Cold Oak right now, then you’re a blind, selfish bastard, Dean.” Bobby’s voice shook as he cleared his throat. “I’ve seen both you boys through death, Hell, and the threat of the damn Apocalypse…so don’t you _dare_ act like I wouldn’t know how you feel….like Sam’s not as much family to me as _you_ are, you damn fool.” Bobby blinked against stubbornly burning eyes.

 

Dean’s face fell as he rocked back into a sitting position, knees drawn tight with clenched, barely contained, trembling hands. “God, Bobby, I’m sorry,” Dean breathed, earnest, self-recriminating eyes lingering on Bobby until gazes met with a nearly imperceptible nod – apology accepted. “I didn’t mean…”

 

“I know,” Bobby said quietly, raw voice pitched to a soothing understanding.

 

“It’s just….” Dean swallowed, hard. His world-weary gaze shifted back to his brother, cracking visibly down to pure grief in the space of a breathy pause. “He shot Sammy. In the _head_.” And this was Dean, the devoted brother, grieving and terrified, all else stripped away. “What am I supposed to do, Bobby?” The tears finally gave way. “What am I supposed to do?” he echoed desperately.

 

And Bobby, just as desperately, tried to pretend he didn’t feel the whispers of Cold Oak chill his skin.

 

This was Dean bleeding out emotionally, needing treatment John had never been able to provide. Sitting slumped next to his little brother, staring at the shaved swath along the right side of Sam’s head and the puckered skin wrestled back into order by tight, professional sutures…..trying desperately to focus on ways to tease Sam about his half-shaved head in order to block out the relentless memory of seeing Sam’s head snap back on the echo of a gunshot, of Dean’s desire to see the Grand Canyon rapidly disappearing as he packed the seemingly endless gorge in Sam’s head with handkerchiefs and bandanas while Sam’s increasingly pale, slack face was drenched in a mockery of color turned inside-out.

 

This was Dean turning to the only other family he had next the current focus of his grief.

 

He didn’t have his brother to lean on. His blood parents were dead.

 

But Bobby was there.

 

Bobby bit back a groan as he sunk to the ground, back leaning against the desk, eye level now with Dean, but not so close that he could be seen as pushing a physical closeness that the boys generally only reserved for each other. “You stay with Sam,” Bobby answered honestly, certain. He held up a hand to ward off any coming protest. “You don’t need me to tell you how bad that head wound is – when Sam wakes up, he’s gonna be hurtin’ and disoriented as hell. He’ll also be worried about _you_ , and it don’t matter how many times anyone tries to tell him, he won’t settle without seein’ you. He’s gonna need you. That sonuvabitch hunter’ll be dealt with, but not by you, not right now. All you’ve gotta do is be here when Sam wakes up, got it?”

 

And damn if Dean’s breathy, “yeah”, the resolute set of his shoulders, the relieved understanding in his shadowed face….if it wasn’t accompanied by the purest shine of _trust_ swimming in those suddenly open eyes.

 

Trust in Bobby – to make things right in Dean’s world.

 

And Bobby wondered when the hell _that_ had happened.

 

When it had gone beyond even family.

 

And had become all about trust.

 

***

 

 

The calls had long since been made, a friend of Bobby’s in the sheriff’s department calling back to confirm the arrest, on several anonymous tips, of a heavily armed, raging lunatic who was killed by police after firing upon the arresting officers.

 

A small, weary, but slightly feral smile turned Bobby’s lips. Dean slowly turned and met Bobby’s eyes, putting together bits and pieces of the hushed phone conversations in the background of his silent vigil…and echoed that smile under eyes brimming with gratitude.

 

And that _trust_ again….that Dean hadn’t _expected_ Bobby to deal with Sam’s attempted murderer, but had….

 

And suddenly, Bobby understood. Remembered the same emotionally-charged expression on Dean’s face in the wake of hellfire.

 

When Dean had returned from Hell, putting Bobby through the wild storm of emotion as yet another son returned from the dead, Dean had soon, predictably, asked about Sam….and more emotions flared. Dean’s initial horror that Bobby didn’t know for certain whether Sam was even alive, his frustration at the lack of communication, his tacit understanding of Sam’s withdrawal, followed by the fade to apology, the assurance that he knew Bobby did his best…..and then Bobby had met those impossibly _real_ eyes, and was damn near bowled over by the truth there. Dean hadn’t just _hoped_ that Bobby would look after Sam. He _trusted_ him to do it – trusted Bobby enough to transfer his single, most important mission to – freely gave and trusted Bobby with Dean’s heart and soul, his devotion – his brother. Trusted Bobby to _be_ Dean in Dean’s absence – to protect Sam as Dean would, at all costs.

 

Hell, there weren’t even _words_ for that.

 

Hadn’t been then, and as Bobby’s jaw dropped in a resurgence of memory, certainly weren’t _now_.

 

But then, looking back at Dean’s half-shadowed face willing what little light remained in the room, in their whole damn world, back into Sam’s translucent face…..well, the need for words suddenly seemed insignificant. With a barely audible purse-lipped breath, Bobby finally shut his gaping mouth.

 

Just to have Sam open his, gasping weakly.

 

Dean was swift, desperate movement tempered into economic, soothing care. Gentle hands cradled Sam’s frowning face, a shaking, hopeful, tearful voice calling his brother back. “Sam?” Dean swallowed, rubbing a careful thumb over Sam’s right cheek. “Sammy, you with me?”

 

Sam unconsciously turned his head slightly toward Dean’s voice….and promptly went rigid as he vomited violently.

 

Dean jolted as if electrocuted, even as he pulled Sam onto his side before sliding into place at Sam’s head and pulling his brother upright, Sam’s back against Dean’s chest, tilted toward Sam’s left so the wound wasn’t jarred. “Come on, Sammy, you gotta wake up a little more for me….please, Sam,” Dean pleaded as Sam choked.

 

Sam coughed heavily, spitting a mouthful of bloody emesis to the floor, sucking in a shuddering breath as his airway cleared.

 

“That’s my boy,” Dean praised soothingly. “Open your mouth for me, Sam,” he prodded, eyeing the blood-spattered floor nervously.

 

Sam managed a weak response, enough for Dean to take the suddenly proffered flashlight from Bobby and peer into Sam’s mouth. Bitten tongue. He let out a breath. That, he could deal with.

 

“Okay, Sam, how about opening your eyes, huh?” Dean continued, barely concealing the raw need to see his brother’s eyes, no matter how potentially horrifying the head wound sequelae could be. “Just for a few minutes, okay? Just so I can check you out, then you can go back to sleep. Come on Sammy,” Dean begged, drawing Sam closer to his chest, willing his own strength into his brother’s sluggish body.

 

Sam’s eyes slit open with a groan as Bobby rushed to pull the curtains further against the setting sun.

 

“That’s it Sam, look at me,” Dean encouraged, leaning over and to the side, putting his face in Sam’s line of vision.

 

Sam squinted, blinked sluggishly, and moaned again.

 

“Dude, that’s no way to greet a face like this,” Dean chided teasingly over the raw undercurrent of fear drowning his eyes. “Come on man, open up,” he patted Sam’s left cheek gently.

 

Sam’s brow furrowed deeply as he blew out a breath, and with a seemingly herculean effort, opened his eyes halfway, shakily tracking Dean’s fuzzy features.

 

Dean beamed. “’Bout time you woke up,” he grinned, gently turning Sam’s head so Sam’s shaky eyes were in line with his. “Focus on me, Sammy,” he said softly.

 

As if Sam could ever lose that focus. After several seconds of frustrated, shaking tracking, Sam’s eyes locked on Dean’s.

 

And the room took a breath.

 

“Hey,” Dean smiled. “Neuro check time – see how hard that head of yours is.” Worry flashed briefly through Dean’s face before he swallowed it back, pressing on – a true Winchester. “Tell me your name,” he ordered, firm, but soft.

 

Sam swallowed thickly. “S-Sam,” he croaked.

 

“Good,” Dean breathed, shoulders relaxing a fraction. “How about me? ‘Member mine?” Dean’s bravado faltered with nervous anticipation. Even though Sam had met his eyes it didn’t mean….

 

Even with significant blood loss, twenty-four hours of unconsciousness, and thirty damned stitches in his head, Sam still managed to shoot Dean an “are you kidding me?!” look at the seemingly ridiculous question. “Dean,” Sam responded clearly, all traces of the stuttering weakness he had just shown stating his own name moments before gone – as if, even if Sam couldn’t recall his own name, that he could never forget Dean’s. Could never forget _Dean_.

 

Bobby watched as Dean’s shoulders dropped, tension melting from his bones – and the neuro check abruptly stopped, as if Dean didn’t care at that moment about any other potential damage – that so long as Sam knew Dean, that they could get through anything – that they would be okay.

 

“D’n, wha’ happ’nd?” Sam’s voice slipped into a weary slur, as if he had used all his energy in that one clear, reassuring vocalization of Dean’s name.

 

“You got a damn canyon plowed into the side of your head,” Dean hitched Sam closer as Sam’s head lolled, stabilizing the ragged mop of hair with a steady chin hooking it into place. “Thank God you dropped….” Dean’s voice trailed off, choking on the pain of “what if.”

 

But Bobby knew…..had heard Dean’s anguished replaying of what could have been as he sat over Sam. Thank God for Sam’s quick reflexes and the instinctual response to his brother’s split-second warning - that fraction of movement as Sam threw himself down and to the left was all that had saved Bobby from a repeat nightmare of yellow eyes, bloody, severed spinal cords, and devastated brothers.

 

“Wha’?” Sam murmured.

 

“Eloquent, Sam,” Dean chuckled, tilting his head so one cheek brushed Sam’s dark hair. He shifted his chin back into place, stabilizing the swimming head. “You’re gonna be okay. We’re at Bobby’s – he patched you up, and you’re gonna be fine. Just gotta rest,” Dean reassured Sam as much as himself, his voice a breathy prayer of hope and thanksgiving.

 

“’Kay,” Sam nodded. He went from translucent to downright _transparent._

 

“Easy Sam,” Dean soothed, positioning his brother to maintain Sam’s airway, one arm holding Sam closer to his chest, the other running gently along one arm, a soft presence. “Breathe through it Sammy, come on, breathe with me.”

 

Sam slowly relaxed, matching his breathing with his brother’s. He slumped back against Dean’s chest as the nausea finally passed. “D’n?” Sam mumbled, eyes squinting Dean into shaky focus.

 

“Yeah Sam?”

 

“M’head hur’s,” Sam slurred, wincing as he shifted position.

 

Dean huffed a loaded laugh. “Yeah, well, thirty stitches holding that geeky brain in your skull’ll do that,” he chuckled. Sobering just as quickly, he ran a hand through his brother’s hair, a silent childhood reflection. “I’ll go get you some pain meds and ginger ale, okay?” he asked quietly - their tried-and-true remedy. Dean shifted to get up. “Bobby, could you sit….”

 

Sam’s left arm flailed, grasping clumsily at Dean’s shirt, twisting desperately in the fabric as Dean attempted to stand. “Sam, I’ll be right back. Bobby’ll be right…”

 

Sam made a desperate sound deep in his throat, clenching Dean’s shirt impossibly tighter, shaking his head weakly even as the nausea bubbled in his throat at the minute movement.

 

“Okay, okay,” Dean hurriedly settled back down, talking Sam through the next wave of retching. “Okay, Sam, I’m not goin’ anywhere.” He let out a shaky breath, holding Sam tight, absently rubbing one arm. Several moments passed, before Bobby nudged an opened can of lukewarm ginger ale against the steadying hand splayed across Sam’s chest. Dean looked up, a start in his eyes that refused to translate to his body, lest he jar his brother, as if he had completely forgotten that Bobby was even _there_ , let alone that he had left the room and returned. “Thanks Bobby,” he croaked, gently nudging Sam awake and into a better position to drink.

 

Dean was cringing at the ginger ale’s reappearance, soothing a shaking Sam through another painful bout of heaves, when Bobby suddenly reappeared at Sam’s right side, opening a small, black kit, and pulling out a syringe and two vials. Dean’s eyes flickered over the supplies, only curiosity passing through eyes naturally suspicious of others’ intentions toward the figure in his arms.

 

“Phenergan for the nausea and Toradol for the headache – non-narcotic so we can keep checking him. The pills aren’t likely to stay down for awhile,” Bobby explained simply, nodding at Sam’s shaky swallowing.

 

Dean softened. “Where’d you get all that?” he asked, an unspoken approval of the option lighting his face.

 

Bobby flushed. “I….”

 

Dean actually laughed, his face briefly stripped of all but the best of his life. “Never mind,” he grinned. “Just glad you’ve got it.”

 

Bobby chuckled softly as he drew up the meds and handed the syringe and alcohol swab out to Dean.

 

Dean looked up, confused.

 

Bobby’s face mirrored the uncertainty. “Figured you’d want to…” he gestured the syringe toward Sam’s arm.

 

Dean shook his head. “Nah, you give it Bobby,” he said, meeting Bobby’s eyes directly for a brief moment before returning his attention to Sam, gently explaining the pending injection, what meds were being given, and what they would treat. Sam relaxed further into Dean’s arms, closing his eyes at Bobby’s name.

 

But not before Bobby caught a flicker of that same emotion in Sam’s eyes.

 

Because when Dean had told Bobby to give that injection, it wasn’t just so he could keep holding onto Sam. His voice was layered with the same emotion that filled his and Sam’s eyes, emotion that nearly knocked Bobby on his ass.

 

Complete trust.

 

Trust was not given easily in their line of work, and with the Winchesters, even less so. One had to be deserving, worthy of a trust deeper than blood – a trust that Sam and Dean showed each other, not in words, but in sheer presence and action.

 

And Bobby suddenly realized how long Sam and Dean had trusted him – not only as a father figure, but as an extension of their own devotion to each other. And it wasn’t verbal – never had to be. Because, with Sam and Dean, what _really_ mattered, was expressed by what they _did_.

 

Dean handing Bobby the keys to the Impala after Cold Oak, allowing Bobby into both Dean’s home and his overwhelming loss, while Dean cradled Sam’s lax body in the back seat, accepting Bobby’s silent support as desperate sobs were wrenched from an already worn throat, tears streaming from eyes both emotionally shattered and hauntingly dead.

 

Sam’s midnight phone calls, whispered as he paced motel bathrooms while Dean slept through another night closer to Hell, desperate for new research, new chances…..for collaboration on saving his brother, a life far more precious than his own.

 

Dean’s serious, unspoken plea for Bobby to watch over Sam as Hell rapidly approached.

 

Sam’s devastated face meeting Bobby’s shared grief as Sam vehemently shot down Bobby’s rational suggestion to salt and burn Dean’s corpse, yet leaning ever so slightly toward Bobby’s support as the older man helped shovel the last bit of dirt onto Dean’s coffin.

 

Dean allowing Bobby to inject Sam without a flicker of suspicion.

 

Sam settling into his brother’s arms at Bobby’s name.

 

Dean hadn’t just trusted Bobby to _treat_ Sam. He trusted Bobby _with_ Sam, with the only thing that mattered in his life.

 

And Sam, in turn, had trusted Bobby’s intentions as he would trust Dean’s.

 

Bobby had seen Dean step protectively between John and Sam in the past. Despite the blood ties of family, Bobby knew there was precious little trust there when it came down to it – little trust that John would watch out for Sam to Dean’s standards.

 

Yes, it had gone way beyond family…..and had come down to that one word.

 

Trust in Bobby – that he would be Sam when Dean was in need……and Dean when Sam was. That he would protect each brother as the other would - at all costs.

 

The chill of Cold Oak, the flaying fires of Hell, the impending destruction of the whole damn world….it was all suddenly insignificant. Because those two sets of eyes had just looked at Bobby with a muted version of that _way_ they had - the way they looked at each other.

 

And in that moment, Bobby couldn’t care less _how_ they had gotten here, because this..…well, if he never did anything else with his life, it wouldn’t matter.

 

He had the trust of the Winchester brothers.

 

And hell, if _those_ words weren’t enough to make a man’s life mean something, Bobby didn’t know _what_ was.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
